


Shh, Tim, It's the Good Part

by incogneat_oh



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Movie Night, Slice of Life, weird families bonding weirdly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 12:07:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12058674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh
Summary: Dick bullies Tim into a movie night.





	Shh, Tim, It's the Good Part

–  
11 Mar. 01.44AM  
From :  DickHOLE  
   
 **You home/awake,**  
 **little bro?**  
  
  
11 Mar. 01.48AM  
To    :  DickHOLE  
  
 **Why.**  
  
11 Mar. 01.49AM  
From :  DickHOLE  
  
 **I’m coming in! BD**  
  
  
Tim sets his phone down at the desk and rubs his eyes, repressing the urge to sigh. It’s less than three minutes before he hears the window sliding open in his bedroom, then a muted thump. The scrape of the window closing again.  
  
“If you’re anyone but Dick,” he calls out, not turning from the desk. “You’re in for an ass-kicking.”  
  
There’s faint warmth at his back, though he heard no footsteps. The smell of aftershave and kevlar, Dick’s warm laugh above his head. “ ’s'at how you greet all intruders?”  
  
“Mm,” Tim hums his agreement. “For the most part.” He tips back slightly in the chair, catching Nightwing in his peripheral. “I don’t know how, but Jay got hold of my phone again.”  
  
“Oh yeah?” Dick says, as Tim holds up the offending gadget.   
  
Dick steps closer, dark-gloved hand wrapping around Tim’s, tilting it in order to view the screen of the phone. There’s a huff of breath around Tim’s ear that means either laughter or an impending sulk.  
  
Tim waits, muscles frozen and barely breathing. Not knowing what to expect.   
  
Then there’s a chuckle, and Dick leans in to kiss his temple. “Hello,” he says.   
  
Tim flinches away from Nightwing’s masked face, says, “You’re freezing.”  
  
Dick shrugs, says, “Yeah, it’s pretty cold out there.” He pries of his mask and rubs at his eyes. His lips twitch. “I’m a veritable Dick-cicle.”   
  
“Veritable idiot,” Tim mutters, but Dick pretends not to hear.   
  
The older man props himself against the desk, so Tim has to crane his neck to meet his gaze without standing. He smiles, then, a bit gentler, and says, “How’s your wrist?”  
  
“It’s fine,” Tim says, rolling his eyes. “Bruce overreacted, telling me I can’t patrol. You know how he is, ordering you not to go at the same time as making you feel guilty about it?”   
  
“Heh. Yeah, that sounds like B.” His expression, lightning quick, switches from amusement to concern. “How ‘bout your ribs?”  
  
“Bruised. Not even broken, remember?”  
  
Dick makes a show of folding his arms. “ _Miraculously_  not broken, Timmy. Lots of people are walking around right now with ribs that aren’t broken. My ribs, for example, are not broken. There is a difference between not broken and  _miraculously_  not broken.”  
  
“Not broken is not broken,” Tim says stubbornly, inwardly cursing Dr. Thompkins and his whole damn hypocrite family. He sags slightly in the chair, not wanting to encourage an argument. “What are you doing here, anyway?”   
  
“I’m not allowed to come visit my ailing little brother?”  
  
“Ailing is not the same as injured, Dick.”   
  
“I’m not allowed to come visit my pedantic little brother?”  
  
Tim sighs, because Dick is evidently in one of  _those_  moods.   
  
“I mostly meant the timing. It’s a ridiculous hour for you to just want to hang out, but it’s too early for you to be checking on me after you did your rounds on patrol.”  
  
“We’re bats, Timmy, of course we’re nocturnal,” Dick says dismissively, stretching. “And 'hanging out’, little brother, is exactly what we’re gonna do.”  
  
“I’m working,” Tim says, trying to be cross. But as usual around Dick, he mostly sounds exasperated and fond.   
  
“That sure sounds like resting your broken–”  
  
“ _Fractured_.”  
  
“–wrist.”  
  
“I can type, Dick. Besides, this is for Bruce.”  
  
“Well, in that case,” Dick says, and the sarcasm is  _tangible_. “You got 3 minutes, little bird, then I’m confiscating your computer. Uh, you still have some of my clothes, right?”  
  
“Second drawer, right hand side,” Tim says absently, already typing again. He pauses when Dick is in his bedroom doorway. “Do me a favour?” Hesitant. He licks his lips, checks Dick’s reflection on his computer screen.  
  
“Anything, kiddo,” Dick says, leaning on the doorjamb.  
  
“Can you… not mess up the drawers? Please? They’re very– precise–”  
  
Dick’s laughing, loud and obnoxious, when the bedroom door shuts.   
  
Tim  _doesn’t flush_  even though Dick is an  _asshole_  and  _neatness is not a crime_ , but he does get back to work.  
  
It’s a blissfully peaceful seven and a half minutes before an overfull grocery bag is dumped in his lap, startling him. His brother’s now-bare hand snakes around him to the keyboard, hits 'Ctrl + S’, and closes the laptop.   
  
“I was mid-sentence–”   
  
“Timmy, you’ve never lost a train of thought in your life,” Dick says, and Tim can hear the eyeroll.  
  
“What’s this?”   
  
“We’re gonna watch a movie,” the elder explains, slow, like he asked a stupid question. “The DVD selection is under the snacks.”  
  
Tim pulls out a small stack of DVDs, mouth falling wide. “…Did you actually go to the DVD Hire as Nightwing?”  
  
“Okay, first _shut up_ because Nightwing could totally pull that off, and second, no. I hired 'em today, civvies and everything. Planted 'em close by on my route.”  
  
“My pick?” Tim turns, suspicious, DVDs splayed in his non-bandaged hand.  
  
“Your pick,” Dick agrees.  
  
“ _Blade Runner_.” Tim doesn’t even have to think. And then– “But I can’t believe you thought you’d have to stack the deck, Dick.”  
  
“Timmy,  _Made of Honor_  is a wonderful movie, and  _How to Train Your Dragon_  made Damian cry,” Dick says, with the air of a man expecting a fight. At Tim’s disbelieving stare, he amends, “ _Okay_  I cried, but Damian didn’t poke fun at me once.” Then, bouncing on the balls of his feet– _and are those Tim’s socks?_ – Dick snatches the movie from Tim’s slackened hand, and bounds over to the TV. “Come on, handsome!” he says, too loud for 2am. “Come get comfy, no more work tonight.”  
  
Tim moves stiffly to walk the few steps to the sofa. He doesn’t give Dick the satisfaction of wincing, but goddamn he wants to. He eases himself down to the couch and forces a smile, and yeah, so maybe Bruce was right and he does need a few nights off.  
  
While the DVD loads, Dick snatches the bag of snacks from where Tim left them on the desk, then clatters around in the kitchen a while. He swings himself smoothly over the back of the couch, handing Tim, unasked, a sports drink and two prescribed painkillers. He slings an arm casually over the back of the couch.  
  
Eyes on the TV and finger resting on the 'Play’ button, Dick says flatly, “Tim if you don’t swallow those pills there will be trouble.”  
  
–  
  
Twenty minutes in, Dick has given up all pretense and is cuddling against his brother openly.   
  
(And when Tim had tried to mention it, Dick, eyes focussed on the screen, just said, “Shh, you could’ve died two nights ago”, and pressed a kiss into his hair.)  
  
“This movie scared the pants off me as a kid,” Tim admits. The painkillers are barely kicking in, but he’s already feeling a bit more relaxed. Part of that is probably the familiarity of this, feeling comfortable and safe and warm against his big brother’s side, surrounded by the scent of laundry detergent and Dick’s aftershave. Something about Dick’s presence has always soothed him, grounded him somehow.  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“I used to worry I was a replicant and didn’t know it.”  
  
There’s a slight pause, something that might be a laugh. “You were a weird kid, Timmy.”  
  
.  
  
It’s later when Tim wakes from a light doze by Dick, shifting to answer Tim’s phone from the coffee table.   
  
“Hey, B,” Dick answers. “Everything okay?” He relaxes back again, grinning. “Uh-huh, we’re great… watching a movie and stuffing ourselves. Mhm. You wanna talk to Tim? He’s practically awake.”  
  
Tim elbows him.  
  
Then Dick pulls the phone a bit away from his face, says, “Sorry, Timmy, he says no thank you. He said he was gonna wait to 'til you were older to tell you, but you’re adopted. And then I think he called you a nerd?” Dick’s grinning wide but trying to hide it when he puts the phone back to his ear, “What? Aww, don’t be that way, Bruce, you love me–  _ow, Tim_ , was that necessary?”   
  
He’s quiet another moment, glances at the paused DVD. “Hah. Yeah, Deckard’s icing Zhora. You know, the glass scene.” He glances sidelong at Tim. “Nah, he didn’t go for  _Made of Honor_. There’s always next time.” Dick eases Tim back against his side, mussing his hair. “I always do, Dad. Give Dami a kiss from me? Yeah, g'night.” Dick rolls his eyes and tosses the phone back to the table. “Said he was checking in,” Dick yawns, stretches back on the couch. “He’s  _totally_  not gonna kiss Dami for me.”   
  
“Prob'ly not,” Tim agrees tiredly, and Dick presses play.   
  
–  
  
Tim only vaguely stirs when Dick leaves. He’s  _at least_  three quarters asleep, probably more, but is distantly aware of a few short, soft kisses against his nose and forehead, and a warm hand brushing through his hair.   
  
The voice, deep and familiar, always with an undercurrent of amusement, says, “You know, Timmy, I sometimes think you’re too precious to be real.”   
  
Another kiss, warm against his cheek, and Dick lowers his voice further. “Love you, little brother. I’m glad you’re okay.”  
  
Tim struggles to open his eyes, to speak, but Dick shushes him gently, says, “Go back to sleep, kiddo, everything’s fine.”  
  
So Tim does.   
  
–  
  
The next morning when Tim wakes on the couch, there are only a few subtle signs that Dick had been there at all.   
  
The blanket tucked around him, for one.   
  
The dirty dishes on the sink.   
  
The bottle of painkillers sitting ostentatiously and impossible to miss in the middle of the coffee table.   
  
The clothes that Dick is had worn the previous night, which are apparently staying at Tim’s now, untidily folded on his desk chair.   
  
The hired movies stacked up beside the TV (which means Dick will invite himself over again in a day or two).  
  
The heart drawn in magic marker on the inside of his uninjured wrist.

And, of course, Tim’s phone, sitting where Dick had left it in the early hours; highlighted in Tim’s contact list, the name “jASSon”.

Tim rolls over and goes back to sleep.

  
**-THE END-**

**Author's Note:**

> Also on [tumblr.](http://incogneat-oh.tumblr.com/post/15976698706/shh-tim-its-the-good-part)


End file.
